


Broken Glass: Part Seven – Another Angle

by motsureru



Series: Broken Glass [7]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Awkwardness, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Law Enforcement, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-06
Updated: 2007-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for all of Season one. This is a continuation after Season 1, Sylar/Mohinder-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Glass: Part Seven – Another Angle

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _Zane should have understood. Zane could have understood. But certain moments captured even Zane in a circle of doubt and mental disarray from which no sense could be salvaged. Nothing could be figured out to satisfaction._

 

.7 Another Angle

 

            Two and a half days. Almost three _days_ had gone by, and not a word from Mohinder. No call, no appearance, no nothing. Sylar was going to go out of his mind. Somewhere between the incessant hacking cough of the old lady next door and the penetrating voice of the nurse on the midnight shift Sylar felt his sanity slipping away. 

            He had decided it was in his better interest to play nice at the hospital like Mohinder wanted. As much as he would have loved to put up a fight and aggravate the nurses to the point of kicking him out, if he did so Mohinder wouldn’t be very likely to keep up his end of the deal. And that, of all things, was something Sylar simply couldn’t have. So he decided to wait, although waiting did not mean waiting patiently, nor did it mean he had to put on smiles and lie sweet words through his teeth at the nurses anymore. Sylar simply gave them a cold indifference and the silent treatment, working the suggestion that he leave early a bit more subtly into their minds.

            That also didn’t mean, of course, that he was on his best behavior. Sylar may have been quiet and brooding without causing outright fights, but the nurses soon found that strange things began happening nearby. People passing by Sylar’s room who spoke too loudly tripped over themselves, papers flew out of peoples’ hands, carts wheeled themselves slowly away without ever being touched, and, most commonly, bowls of soup found ways to spill themselves down the shirts of nurses before they ever reached their destination. The doctor was called within the first day to adjust the prescribed diet for the patient in room 134. 

            And while Gabriel Gray had lived nothing but a lonely and solitary existence for all his years, it was Sylar, or perhaps even Zane Taylor, who had gotten used to the idea of company. Even with all the hours in clandestine stalking and contemplation of murder that Sylar had become so accustomed to, he found that after his road trip escapade and the many nights spent pondering his existence as a ticking time bomb the simple days alone in the hospital irritated him beyond belief. He _had_ a plan of sorts. He _had_ something in the making. The problem was that he had himself stuck in a holding pattern that depended on Mohinder and at the moment Mohinder must have been avoiding Sylar like the plague. Being left to his own devices meant being left to his thoughts. That, surely, was dangerous to him.

            Soon after Sylar came to the realization that he had absolutely nothing to do with his time except watch the three second slow clock tick by, his mind had begun to turn back on itself. He began to think, and think about Mohinder. They had spent a good deal of time together, and yet, as transparent as Mohinder could be at times, some moments had left Sylar completely mystified as to the man’s nature. He was attractive, charming (in an aloof manner), but also driven. Just when it seemed as though Mohinder would yield to his whim like the most delicate of flowers, he would just as quickly draw blood by discreetly bared thorns. And yet, obvious and plain as he should have been… Mohinder left Sylar wanting to _know_ him. Sylar almost, in the darkest corners of his mind secret even to himself, wanted to be known _by_ him. 

            Irritating. 

            As Zane Taylor, maybe, he could have forgiven himself such thoughts. But that was not the case. Mohinder had gotten under his skin with the very first disarming smile.Chandra had treated Gabriel politely as a lab rat that could be dismissed, but Mohinder had taken him into his life without a question. The very idea confused and bewildered Sylar.

            Zane should have understood. Zane could have understood. But certain moments captured even Zane in a circle of doubt and mental disarray from which no sense could be salvaged. Nothing could be figured out to satisfaction.

 

_“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get the gas, you just grab some coffee. It’ll be good for you to stretch,” Zane suggested, patting Mohinder on the shoulder a couple times. When Mohinder’s tired eyes lingered on him, his hand lingered too. Then Mohinder nodded and smiled his genuine smile._

_“I’ll be right back.”_

_Zane paused and pulled his wallet out of his pocket, examining its contents with a subtle glance towards the price of gas glaring in bold letters by the road side. Then he turned and looked at the machine next to the car. Simple enough. He had seen them in the city. But Gabriel Gray had hardly ridden in a car more than twice before this trip; “Deathtraps” his mother had called them after Mrs. Kline from the third floor broke her wrist in a fender-bender. No, the bus, the subway, and his bicycle were good enough, even after he’d started traveling to Brooklyn to run the shop._

_Now he was left staring at the gas pump, pulling the handle out with a clumsy jerk. He stared at the nozzle. It wasn’t broken, at least. He had instinctive idea of how to work it but he’d never actually done so. It showed._

_“Do you need some help?” Mohinder’s voice returned with its smile in tow. He walked over and set the coffees on the roof of the car._

_Zane turned and flipped open the cover to the gas tank, unscrewing the lid. “Nope. I got it,” he said quickly, putting the nozzle into the tank. In his rush he tried to squeeze. Nothing happened._

_Mohinder smiled and moved forward. “No, you have t-”_

_“I’ve got it, Mohinder. Just-” The tension rose in Zane’s voice, cheeks coloring a little from embarrassment as he squeezed the handle tightly several more times and nothing happened still. He knew how it worked, if he could think straight-_

_Mohinder slipped next to him, Zane between himself and the pump. He reached past the man for the switch. “If you’d just-”_

_“I’ve got it!” Zane half-shouted, pushing Mohinder back and releasing the handle. The darker man hit the car, pressed up against its cold metal. Mohinder was almost pinned by the close proximity of Zane’s warm body- where his legs brushed up against his own and his hands slowly dropped away... Their faces were inches apart, quickened breath steaming in the air, hearts beating so loudly in his ears…more loudly for one than the other. When their eyes locked, a knowing instant passed between them. But before Sylar could discover it--_

_Mohinder turned away._

_“Sorry,” he breathed out shakily, side-stepping the nearness of Zane’s body. “I didn’t mean to insult you… It’s just an old pump. When I drove a taxi… …Well, you probably already know to flip the switch. Sorry,” Mohinder murmured quickly. He opened the driver’s side door and grabbed the coffees, disappearing inside the vehicle._

 

 

            What was he thinking? What was going through Mohinder’s head in that moment? Zane Taylor had held his breath to find out, but Mohinder had turned away. And when Sylar held the man pinned and bleeding against the wall of his own apartment he made sure Mohinder couldn’t turn away then. At that time, Sylar had held his breath once more—but Peter Petrelli had stolen the moment away before it came to fruition. 

            Zane had eased the long ride on the way back with questions. He spent their time posing theory and suppositions to Mohinder’s ideas on his father’s research to draw him out into the field of communication again, to draw him past the awkwardness and into those hopeful smiles Sylar couldn’t understand. The conversation was enough. The conversation was a reminder of all he had seen in the man from their very first meeting, their first discussion of genetics and the future.

            It was then that he knew he had to have Mohinder somehow. Mentally, physically- he wasn’t sure what way he needed him, only that Mohinder had to be possessed. What had been left to Sylar’s own natural and unnatural intuitions concerning the ignorant individuals who had evolved faster than the rest of humanity Mohinder had understood on his own, based on Chandra’s incomplete and dilemma-riddled research. His genius was enviable. His passion was enviable. It made Mohinder special. Now Sylar wanted what he had but had no way to take it; Mohinder’s mind was all his own, no trick of genetics. But there had to be a way.

            “So the diet is simple enough… nothing spicy, nothing too heavy. Is there anything else I should be aware of?” The sound of Mohinder’s voice was softer than usual, as if he didn’t want to disturb anyone, even though it was late afternoon. That, or he knew what he said was going to be heard anyway. Sylar hadn’t noticed it at first.

            “Well, if you have to know,” the nurse began, an irritated tone cutting into her voice.

            “Deborah!” another woman tried to hush her.

           The nurse put her hands on her hips and dismissed the scolding tone. “That boy isn’t as pleasant as he seemed at first, you know. And weird things have started happening around this ward since you’ve left. Frankly I’m not too sorry to see him go and you should watch yourself, Mr. Suresh.”

            “…Thank you. I will.”

            A moment later, Mohinder appeared in the doorway with two plastic bags in his left hand, looking less than happy. Which made Sylar smile. “I was wondering how long it would take you,” Sylar said casually.

            Mohinder was frowning at the man and he glanced back towards the nurses’ station. “I was wondering how long it would take _you,_ ” he began, “You’ve been playing tricks on these poor women and driving them insane!” he accused with a note of disbelief.

            “To be fair, they started driving _me_ nuts first,” Sylar countered.

            “Yes well, just like you wanted they can’t wait to get rid of you, and you’re being released. I’ve pulled some strings and bought a wheelchair. The nurse is fetching it now.”

            “What about my clothes?”

            Mohinder lifted the two bags in his hand. “You mean the ones that smell like the sewer and are covered in blood? They’ll have to go to the cleaners. I bought you something else in the meanwhile. Until you go home.” Mohinder tossed one of the bags onto Sylar’s knees. “Where do you live anyway? I’ll have to get you a cab there.”

            “I’m going home with you,” Sylar replied, sitting up and opening the bag to look inside. He paused for a moment to tear the IV out of his veins and toss it haphazardly to the floor.

            The look Mohinder gave the man was nothing short of stupefied. “ME? You’re not going home with me.” Mohinder shook his head immediately. “That wasn’t in our deal.”

            “Our deal was that you show me humanity. That you help me out-” Sylar lifted an article of clothing from the bag. It was a dark gray ribbed sweater with a turtleneck. He gave it a critical look as he ripped the tags off and began to tug his hospital gown off over his head. “-and take care of me for a while since I can’t do it myself. To do that, I have to be around you.”

            Mohinder found himself watching Sylar as he moved. He watched the way Sylar wrenched away the price on the shirt and how he threw the hospital gown to the floor in disgust so strong he might as well have burned it with a gaze. When Sylar started to pull the sweater over his head, Mohinder noticed the subtle muscular tone to the man’s body- he did not have the type of body that spoke of a sedentary life by any means. His arms and abdomen hinted at the strength of the muscles beneath. Was it from natural? From travel? Or something else? What had Sylar done in his past, before that false name had ever found itself on his lips?

            “Were you going to watch me put on the pants too?” Sylar asked pointedly, holding the black jean fabric by the edges and staring at Mohinder with his dark eyes.

            Mohinder found himself flustering abruptly and he turned around. He immediately walked over to the door and closed it. “…Did… you need help? …With your legs…” Mohinder asked uneasily, trying to be polite about his disability. Trying to push from his mind how he’d stared.

            “I’ll manage,” Sylar replied. The shuffling of the sheets was heard.

            An uncomfortable silence passed between them. Or maybe only Mohinder was uncomfortable?

            “Don’t you… have an apartment somewhere?” Mohinder finally asked, watching the tiles of the floor while he waited.

            “No.”

            “But surely you-” Mohinder paused. “I’ve been there. To your apartment in Queens,” he said suddenly, turning around. 

            Sylar was zipping up his fly, and he raised an eyebrow at Mohinder.

            The scientist flushed again. “My father had your name written in a notebook. I’ve been to that address, I’ve seen-…” The things he had seen… he’d even taken pictures of. Books on evolution, books on brain surgery. A map just like his father’s and scrawlings of unstable pleas for forgiveness on dingy walls and dark corners. Mohinder swallowed. How could he have forgotten?

            Sylar’s gaze was unyielding. “You’ve seen that I don’t live there anymore,” he corrected. Mohinder move his eyes slowly away once again. More of the monster than the man was showing and it tugged at something deep inside Mohinder.

            “There must be somewhere else. You took everything. What about your clothes? Your personal effects?” Mohinder insisted.

            “I’ve been on the run for a while. I’ve got nowhere else to go,” Sylar replied.

            Mohinder ran a hand over his face with a slow sigh. This was going to be a disaster.

            A knock on the door came a moment later and there was no wait for an answer before the nurse opened it and came in pushing a wheel chair. “Paperwork’s all done. You boys set to leave?” she asked with a pleasant smile, leading the device next to the bed and putting on the brake.

            “Yes, certainly,” Mohinder replied before Sylar could open his mouth.

            “Alright then. How should we move him?” the nurse asked. “I can get one side if you-”

            “Mohinder can move me,” Sylar was quick to say. When Mohinder looked up sharply, he saw something in those eyes, a sort of warning. If Sylar wanted, he might be able to lift himself telekinetically and place his own body in the chair, but this was his way of saying ‘let’s avoid a scene.’ …While obviously causing one for Mohinder. Mohinder chose not to protest out loud.

            Sylar began to shift over to the left, putting his back to the two of them while his legs twisted at a slightly odd angle from their immobility. Mohinder stared at him for a moment; it briefly it crossed his mind that the dark clothing, the ribbed sweater and black pants, rather suited Sylar in some way. Who knew Mohinder could shop with a killer in mind? He moved behind the man and took a moment to figure out what he should do. 

            Mohinder clenched his jaw. He leaned down and slipped his arms carefully beneath Sylar’s, feeling his warmth back to chest as he pulled. Realizing this was, in fact, a flawed position, Mohinder quickly adjusted Sylar’s weight so his back leaned mostly against one shoulder, Mohinder’s free arm slipping under the man’s thighs to counterbalance. Mohinder gave a small grunt as he half-lifted Sylar, trying to position him towards the chair.

            When it seemed like Mohinder might slip, Sylar gave an unexpected grip onto the back of Mohinder’s hand, and it was then that Mohinder realized the closeness of their bodies had brought his lips up against the curve of Sylar’s ear. He inhaled suddenly and dropped the man at the same time, heart pounding. 

            Luckily for Sylar, it was a rough drop right into the wheelchair, causing the metal wheels to bounce a little from his weight. “Oof!” He rested a hand against his chest. “You could have torn my stitches!” Sylar complained.

            “S-Sorry,” Mohinder breathed out, turning away. 

            “Now now…” The nurse moved to Sylar’s other side and knelt down, having his long forgotten shoes in her other hand. She patiently put on his socks and accompanying footwear. “No harm done, right? You two will be home soon enough, and no more of this hospital food,” she said cheerfully. Mohinder knew from that comment she must have been thrilled to get rid of them. 

            Once Sylar was laced up and positioned in the chair, Mohinder dropped the bag of his dirty clothes onto his lap. Then he pulled the brake and backed the chair up. “All set to go then?”

            The nurse smiled. “Absolutely. Shall we see you out?”

            “No, that won’t be necessary,” Mohinder shook his head. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he remarked with a faint smile, starting to push Sylar out of the room. Out of the room, out of the hospital and…back to his apartment? Was this seriously happening to him? 

            Mohinder took the man out of the building without another word, pushing him to the waiting cab that now had one stop instead of two. When he had to lift and aid Sylar out of the chair and into the cab, this time around he did it a little more gracefully. More indifferently. When all was said and done, he found himself sitting to the left of the man with his arms crossed, eyes out the window.

            Taking a taxi with the man who killed his father was a bit too ironic to be anything less than unnerving. 

            Sylar didn’t say a word. Not on the taxi ride, not as Mohinder helped him back into his chair, not as they took an awkward elevator ride up the floors of his building. Mohinder found it more distressing than he cared to admit. Once they’d finally reached his door, Mohinder stepped ahead of the man to unlock it and pushed the door open wide. When he walked around to give the chair a push, it suddenly jerked to life before his hand could touch it; Sylar wheeled himself, hands free, through the door. It looked almost ghostly. 

            “I see you cleaned up,” Sylar finally commented, stopping himself in the middle of the room. His eyes fell on a box next to the desk and then on the top of the desk itself. A brand new laptop sat there, some of its wrappings askew. So this was what Mohinder had been spending his time doing.

            “Yes, well, you didn’t leave it very orderly last time you were here.” Mohinder closed the door behind them and locked it. There was an unmistakably bitter quality to his voice.

            “Well I recall _you_ were the one who broke the map into my face.” Sylar, it seemed, returned the feeling.

            Mohinder sighed, walking into the kitchen area. This was going to be a joy to get through… He was going to have to take into consideration just how long he’d be able to _stand_ spending time with Sylar. Taking a kettle down from its hook, Mohinder started to fill it with water.

            “So what’s for dinner?”

            “….” Mohinder set the kettle on the stove. “I… hadn’t thought about it.”

            “Anything but hospital food is fine, but do you cook?” Sylar asked casually, wheeling himself into the small kitchen after Mohinder. When Mohinder looked back at the man, he found that Sylar was using his arms to move the chair around. It felt… oddly unnecessary, after his last display.

            “I… can’t really cook all that well,” Mohinder admitted, stepping aside with a startle as his refrigerator door opened itself. Sylar leaned over in his chair and began to examine the contents, the drawers inside coming open on their own one by one to reveal to the man their insides. It was as if the world simply turned itself inside out for the killer.

            “How did you survive all alone in this apartment without cooking?” Sylar asked pointedly, chin lifting and body arching back as he tried to see the uppermost shelves.

            Mohinder took it upon himself to step away from the man and his machine. “…A lot of take-out, I guess. …And… a neighbor of mine cooked for me a lot.” He cleared his throat a little. He hadn’t thought about his memories of Eden in this apartment for some time.

            “You don’t keep any meat?” Sylar asked, several vegetables floating their way off the shelves and onto the countertop.

            “…” Mohinder wondered if this was how Sylar always ran a kitchen. “I’m a vegetarian, for the most part. Occasionally I’ll eat chicken. It’s my culture.”

            “Too much red meat is bad for you anyway,” Sylar was muttering to himself, perhaps hearing a motherly voice in his head as he said it. He backed away in the wheelchair as the refrigerator doors closed themselves. Then cabinets filled with pots and pans began to open and close as he searched for something.

            Mohinder found himself speechless. Sylar… the cook? Taking over his kitchen was the last thing Mohinder expected the man to do when he got here. Then again, Mohinder didn’t really know what to expect. He watched as a large pot settled itself on the stove. “I… take it you lived alone then. …If you’re so good at cooking,” Mohinder said awkwardly. Did he just ask a personal question?

            “Get out of the kitchen. I don’t like being watched while I cook,” Sylar replied bluntly, opening drawers to look for a cutting knife.

            “…”

            Mohinder swallowed and took a step back. He watched Sylar’s back for a moment and then he turned and walked out. He decided it was time for a shower. Only when the white noise of the faucet drowned out the rest of the world could he truly be alone with his thoughts. 

            Mohinder had a lot to think about.


End file.
